


Hotel California

by MurderInCrimson



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Body Horror, F/M, Gen, Horror, M/M, Multi, Other, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:00:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29933088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurderInCrimson/pseuds/MurderInCrimson
Summary: Along a dusty highway in the middle of nowhere lies a hotel. It was beautiful once, grand, a diamond amongst a backdrop of sand. Now, it is crumbling--and those within find themselves consumed by their own desires, their own despair.No one is free of dreaming.No one is free of sin.
Relationships: Ronald Knox/Othello, William T. Spears/Grell Sutcliff
Comments: 7
Kudos: 12





	1. Dark Desert Highway

On the side of a forgotten highway on the western coast of the United States of America stood an old, rickety hotel. It had been grand, once; there were hints of its youth, of stained glass windows, of desert roses, of marble fountains and gold gilded statues in the courtyard. Now it stood in shambles, barely usable, a ghost of what it had once been. Soon enough, it would crumble into dust, surely, and be nothing but ash on the wind. 

Surprisingly, it was still in operation. Grelle watched it as it approached on the horizon, her eyes hidden by her glasses. The building shimmered, just so, the sun acting as a halo around it. Her hands gripped the steering wheel, sight focused on the odd hotel. 

The gas gauge blinked, signaling a lack of gas. She winced, glancing briefling at her boss, who sat in the passenger’s seat. William T. Spears, head of the London branch of a very well-to-do business. She was his personal secretary, and traveled with him now to keep everything neat and tidy while he met with American after American. He had been trusted with making progress on extending their company to other areas of the world, aside from just England. 

“Eyes on the road, Ms. Sutcliff.” 

“Y-yes, sir, my apologies.” 

She hummed to herself, nibbling her bottom lip as the hotel approached. “Sir, it will be night soon, and it seems we’re running on fumes--”

William huffed. “Very well. Pull into that hotel. We can spend the night, perhaps call someone to bring us gas. This is why I would have preferred an electric vehicle.” 

“They were out--”

“--honestly, Ms. Sutcliff.” William rolled his shoulders. He watched out of the window as his secretary pulled into the desolate looking hotel’s car park. It was dusty, with only a handful of other vehicles present. As they drove into a spot, he noted a few others heading into the building--two men, younger, carrying what looked to be musical equipment; a young boy, perhaps no older than fourteen, shadowed by a tall, slender man dressed in black. Why they stood out to him, he was not sure. 

He hissed, pain shooting up his leg. It flared and pulsed, threading up through his muscles and bones until it felt like he was going to burst from inside. Carefully, carefully, he massaged the worst of it, just behind his knee, feeling the cold metal of his brace. The car ride was too long, he decided. He needed to stretch, to keep his leg from locking up. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Spears,” Grelle mumbled. Once she found a proper parking spot--right up close, behind the signs marked for disabled use--she turned off the ignition. “Just a moment.” The mousy secretary pushed a few unruly strands of her long, brown hair behind her ear. She double checked everything, making sure at least three times that she had put the damned thing into park. “Let me fetch your cane from the boot.” 

William sighed. He studied the dashboard, listening as Grelle clunked around in the trunk of the vehicle to fetch their things. Silently, he pushed his glasses up his nose, the pain in his leg enough to keep him from moving to aid her. Not that he could. His leg was ruined. The fact that he could feel anything in it at all was, according to numerous doctors, a miracle. 

“Here we are,” Grelle said. She opened the passenger side door, offering the long, slender, black cane out to her boss. “Do you need help out of the car?” 

“No, I can manage. See if you can find a bellboy to help you with our luggage.” 

“Very well, sir.” 

Once she had left, once he was sure no one could see him struggle, William pulled himself out of the vehicle. He used his good leg to steady himself, finally able to stand with the aid of his cane. He sighed, deeply, looking down at the damned thing. There was anger there, inside of him, bubbling up like a boiling pot of ichor. 

He had been graceful, once. 

Now…

Before he could sink any deeper into his woes, Grelle returned. She had a small bell cart, and was dragging it along behind her. The thing creaked and groaned, looking like it was about to fall apart. The wheels shrieked at seemingly random intervals, sending out a song of pain into the air. William hissed. 

“I’m afraid this is the last one they had,” she said as she started to put their luggage upon it. Eyes downcast, she busied herself with her task, lips clamped shut. 

William said nothing, turning away from her. She would meet him inside; she knew the protocole. He limped along, cane tapping against the dusty walkway, and made his way inside. They had worked together now for five years, ever since he had managed to claw his way to a position of power in the company they belonged to. 

Five years with Grelle. Six years since he had awoken from a coma. Seven since he had lost everything in that accident--

“‘Cuse me, sir,” a voice said. William looked up, noting a blonde-haired young man sweep by him. The man grabbed the door handle, smoothly opening the glass pane with a lopsided grin. “Looks like you might need some help.”

Bristling, William pushed by him. “Mind yourself,” he snapped. “I am well enough to manage, thank you.” 

“Hey, it’s all good.” The man started to say something else, but shut up the moment William glared at him, icy eyes ready to kill if needed. The young blonde swallowed down his words, offering a short and shaky nod instead. 

The entryway of the hotel was much larger on the inside than it would have appeared to anyone looking in from outside. A long, well kept, cherrywood desk stood at the back of the room. There was a single door behind it, and above that loomed a massive, stained glass piece, lit from the back of it. It depicted an angel, wings outstretched and arms raised skyward. It was a glorious thing, shimmering and shining in a room that otherwise was falling apart. 

“Thank you,” William heard Grelle’s voice from the door behind him. 

“Ah, no problem, sir.” 

Pause. “It’s...it’s ma’am.” 

“Oh, shit! I’m sorry--”

“I…” Then the squeaking of the bag cart’s wheels. Grelle stood beside her boss, looking around, taking in the impossible grandeur of the entry room. “This place must have been a sight in its prime.” 

William swallowed. “This is the sort of hotel that would have a ballroom,” he whispered, voice hoarse. Then, with a shake of his head, he moved to the front desk, and to the silver haired man behind it. “Sir--do you have vacancies?” 

The man glanced up. He must have been old, what with his hair so silver grey. His bangs were long, however, and save for a few ragged scars, William could not make out anything of his face. That was until he grinned. Oh, that was visible, all wide and laughing. A bit of drool even dripped from the corner of that mouth. 

“I do,” the man purred, laughter most dark at the edges of his voice. 

William shivered. He looked over his shoulder to Grelle, but she was looking at their luggage, probably making sure it was all accounted for. With a sigh, he turned back to the hotel’s keeper. “Very well. I need two rooms, connected, if you have them. One bed each will do.” 

He started to dig into his pocket to pull out his wallet. “I do hope you take credit cards.” 

“Of course,” the silver haired man chuckled. “Of course.” He accepted William’s card, his nails long and black, though it did not seem that he painted them. They were disgusting, William thought, a frown deepening the lines on his face. “Let me see...hehehe...William T. Spears, hm? I know that name…” 

“Surely not,” William snapped. 

“Ah. Yes, yes, I remember--that ballroom dancer. You were famous for a few years...then that terrible accident...heheheh…” The man glanced up at him, just the hint of green eyes shimmering through the thick, unruly silver fringe of his hair. “Your room keys. Please, make sure to sign in.” 

With a snarl, William snatched the keys from the man. “Ms. Sutcliff, let’s go. I have had enough of this idiocy.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

From behind them, the next guests stepped up to the desk. The blonde man from before watched the two leave, toward the elevators. Then he turned back to the man at the desk. “You say that guy was famous?” 

With a grin, the silver-haired man reached out to snatch the credit card from the shorter man standing beside him. “Names?” 

“Ronald,” the blonde mumbled, not really paying attention. “And this is Othello. Uh. We’ve got a concert, few miles away, but our van broke down. Do you know of anyone nearby that can help? We gotta get back on the road by tomorrow.” 

“I will see what I can do, sir.” A pair of keys rattled in his hands. “Second floor. Do have a good night.” 

“Ah...thanks.” Ronald motioned to his companion, Othello, and together they gathered up their items. Before they started for the elevators, he paused. “Hey, Othello?” 

The shorter man looked up, eyes bright. “Yes?” 

“...ah, nevermind. Just getting a bit freaked out.” 

“You haven’t slept in a night or two. You just need to knock yourself out on a comfy bed.” 

“Y...yeah, I guess so.” 

A young teenager frowned, gathering his pale blue hoodie closer to himself. He and the man with him were next, sliding up to the desk with little care. The boy looked up at the stained glass, one lone eye shining reflected light. “It will be night soon,” he mumbled. “Best to get some sleep.” 

“Of course,” the man in black said. “Excuse me, sir. Just one room for us. Two beds, of course.” He offered out a card as well, standing straight and careful, as though trained to do so. Then, to the boy, “I am just looking forward to a hot shower, honestly.” 

The rattle of keys jerked both of them to look at the man with silver hair. “Enjoy your stay,” he purred, the hint of a laugh in the back of his throat. “My my, it would seem that we have a lot of guests tonight. Best be careful. Never know what you might run into...heheheh.”

“That sounds rather dire, doesn’t it?” the boy snapped. He moved to the book on the edge of the desk. It was smeared with ink, the pages crumpled and poorly tended to. One by one, he read off the names to himself, before adding his own, as well as the man he was with. 

_ William T. Spears _

__ _ Grelle Sutcliff _

__ _ Ronald Knox _

__ _ Othello ---- _ (the boy found the last name hard to make out)

And then, finally--

_ Ciel Phantomhive _

__ _ Sebastian Michaelis _

Ciel put the pen down. He glanced over the book again, realizing suddenly that, aside from those six names, the pages were empty, names erased. 

Shivering, he pushed it to the back of his mind, and helped his adoptive father with their few bags. 


	2. My Head Grew Heavy and My Sight Grew Dim

The beds were comfortable, at least. Sebastian ran a finger over the sheets before pulling them down the mattress, checking for signs of bedbugs or other pests. Nothing, thankfully. He sighed a tidy breath of relief. 

“They are suitable,” he said, finally, to the boy standing in the doorway. “Why don’t you have a shower while I make something for us to eat?” 

“Ramen again?” Ciel mumbled, rolling his eye. He removed the eye patch on his face, flicking his hair over the injury to keep it out of view. “Can’t we call room service? They have room service here, don’t they?” 

Humming, Sebastian hauled one of the suitcases from the floor to the bed he had claimed as his own--the one beside the window, and away from the heater.  _ If one of us is going to freeze, it should be me. A cold is the last thing Ciel needs. _ “I am not sure, honestly. You needed to rest. This was the only building for miles that came up on Google Maps.” He waved his cell phone in the air for a moment before sliding it back into his pocket. “Our service isn’t exactly wonderful out here, though.” 

The teen huffed, pulling his hoodie up over his head before throwing it onto his bed. He had a black tee shirt on underneath, along with a pair of comfortable shorts and tennis shoes. The scowl was normal; that was something that he could rarely remove. Kicking off the sneakers, he plopped down onto his bed. The room’s telephone sat on a nightstand between the two beds; he quickly scooped up the receiver. “I’m going to see if there is room service. I want chicken, and something sweet. I am sick to death of instant shrimp ramen.” 

“It was on sale--”

“And for good reason. I don’t think anyone in his right mind would eat that shit.” 

“ _ Language.” _

__ Ignoring that, Ciel dialed the zero key, which, according to the little card under the phone, would connect him to the front desk. He put it up to his ear, listening, waiting. It rang once before devolving into a spat of angry static. “Ugh,” he hissed, and slammed the receiver down into the cradle. “Stupid hotel!”

Sebastian sighed. He pulled something out of his suitcase, then rounded the side of his bed. He put a package on Ciel’s stomach. “It’s not a chicken dinner,” he mumbled, “but I hope it is better than the instant noodles, at least.” His brown eyes, made red by the dim light of the room, softened. “Happy birthday.” 

The teen sat up, frowning. He glared at his adoptive father before opening the small, brown package. There was a plastic bakery box inside, and inside of that, was a small, round cake. Chocolate, by the looks of it, with blueberries and strawberries pressed gently into the thick ganache. His breath caught. “How--”

“I have my ways.” Sebastian sat beside his son, wrapping his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “I am sorry it is like this, Ciel. You know that.” A breath. “What I would give to be able to take you home, properly, to give you the life you deserve.” 

“It’s...it’s my fault,” Ciel mumbled. Shaking his head hard, he opened the clam-shell box. At that point, he didn’t even need a fork. He simply picked up the tiny cake, berries and all, and bit into it. 

It was the most delicious thing he had tasted in nearly a year. 

***

“That guy at the front desk was creepy.”

Othello paused, pulling the glass bottle away from his lips, to look at his fellow musician. Though he was glad they had stocked up on old-fashioned cola in bottles, he was starting to wonder if they should have packed water, too. Something other than soda and candy, at least. 

Ronald continued, tucked up into the window seat, his bass acrossed him as he tuned the thing. He plucked the strings, one by one, humming out the note he wanted to reach. “He looked old, I mean...his hair was really grey. But he didn’t sound old. He sounded...I don’t know. Maybe a bit older than us.” He watched out of the window as the sun set, the sky growing darker and darker with each passing second. 

“You can’t judge a book by its cover, right?” 

Humming, Ronald paused. “There was that lady, too. I called her a bloke. Oh, lord. I misgendered her.” 

“She seemed okay, though. Don’t make a big deal out of it, Ron.” 

Leaning back against the wall, the bassist sighed. “Wish I could smoke in here.” 

“Yeah, not a good idea,” Othello mumbled, sipping his cola. He listened to Ronald thump out a few cords. Rolling his head along his shoulders, he finally grabbed his backpack. Inside was his beloved laptop, the front of it covered in stickers and crude permanent marker drawings. Smiling, he rubbed his thumb over it before turning the thing on. As an older model, it was thick, almost like a brick, and buzzed something wicked as it booted up. 

He tapped some keys, played with the trackpad, then abruptly cursed. “There’s no wi-fi. Oh no! How am I supposed to do anything without the internet!” 

“Don’t make a big deal out of it, ‘Ello,” Ronald chuckled, turning the man’s words back onto himself. He received a rather rude gesture in return, which only made him chuckle harder. Catlike in movement, he slid off of the window seat, set his bass down, and pulled the shorter man into a tender kiss. “I can think of a few things we can do without the ‘net.” 

Othello’s brows rose high, as though they were about to leave his forehead and burst out into orbit. “R-Ronnie--”

Grinning, the blonde lay another kiss upon Othello’s lips, needy and hungry for him. 

***

“Here. I made you a sandwich. It’s not much, but it’s what we had left in the cooler.” 

William raised an eyebrow, but took the paper plate anyway. Just as she had promised, Grelle had made him a sandwich--and exactly how he liked his. White bread. A touch of mayonnaise. Even less mustard. Exactly two slices of turkey, and exactly one slice of ham. Lettuce. One thin slice of provolone cheese. No pickles. It was even perfectly cut at an angle. Approvingly, William nodded to her, then set it beside him on the bed. 

Grelle moved back to the doorway that connected their rooms. She pushed some of her hair out of her face, waiting to see if her boss needed anything else. Then she startled. “Your medicine--”

“I will take it after I eat.” 

She swallowed, folding her arms over her chest. “Do you need help bathing, sir?” Part secretary. Part personal nurse. She fit both roles, though it had taken her five years to perfect her place with him. 

Yet, she wanted more. 

Yet.

“Are you going to eat?” William asked after a moment, one hand idly rubbing his bad leg. He glanced up at her, peering at her over his glasses. “I haven’t seen you eat yet today, Ms. Sutcliff.” 

Grelle forced a smile. “I’m not hungry. You go ahead and eat, sir. I’m going to take a shower in my room. I will check on you again before bed. The signal for our cells seems to be pretty terrible out here; I don’t know if a call will go through, let alone a text. Should I keep the door between our rooms open?” 

William took a breath, still watching the woman keenly. “Yes,” he said, finally. “Make sure you do.” He continued to watch her as she moved away from him, back into her own room. Only when she was out of his view did he bite into the sandwich. “..five years, and you’ve still forgotten the salt,” he mumbled, but forced himself to enjoy the food anyway. It was better than the shitty fast food they had to rely on for the last few days. Had no one out this way thought of building a steakhouse, or had considered a good sushi place? Honestly. 

The salt. Grelle squeezed her eyes shut as she closed the door to her bathroom. The salt. Of course. She had forgotten the stupid sprinkle of salt her boss prefered. The lunch meat should have been salty enough, but no. He had to have a bit extra. 

It could not be helped. She peeled away her clothing, avoiding the mirror behind her. She knew every inch of herself, every piece of her being that she loathed and hated more than anything else in the world. Just as William hated his leg, she hated all of her. 

Though she had no accident to blame. Only birth. Only existing, and shitting health insurance despite the fact that she worked for a rather large, powerful company. She had gone to university, damn it. She had dreams--and here she was, playing nurse-maid to a man that made five times her yearly salary in less than two days. 

She could not hate him, though. 

No. 

Never. 

She turned the tap, watching the water spew down into the tub. It was clear as crystal, the steam already pouring up into the air around her. A shower had sounded nice, but now? Now she decided she needed a good, long soak to clear her head and ease the pain behind her shoulders. Maybe the heat would tend to the pain in her stomach, too. 

Maybe. 

***

He had many names. So many names that had been lost to the wind, to time, to dust. Just like the hotel, he had been beautiful once. He had been sturdy, and strong. Everyone loved him. Everyone wanted to be him, or be with him, in more than one way. 

Now he was known as Undertaker, for reasons that he could not give. All that he knew was that he and the hotel had so much work to do. So. Very. Much. 


	3. There She Stood in the Doorway

Sleep. Sleep was something that she knew she needed, yet it would not come to her willingly. Grelle stilled her breathing, listening to the night around her. The hotel groaned and settled, as older buildings tended to do, but she could also make out the soft whisper of William breathing in the room beside her own. With the door open between them, for his safety, it was an easy sort of comfort. Though she hated to admit it, she stole away some nights, when she was traveling with him, to stand in the doorway between their rooms. He would always ask for conjoined rooms, and always ask that she kept the doors open, just in case. 

What kind of woman was she, to stand there, watching her boss sleep?

There were times when he would be stricken by nightmares. Terrors, really, his body thrashing and his breathing heaving. When he awoke, he would scream. He strangled her, once, his hands around her throat before he realized what he was doing. 

She should have quit that night. She should have shut the doors between them, and left him alone. Yet--yet. She couldn’t. She could not leave William alone. 

Now, she slipped out of the hotel bed. It was comfortable--surprisingly so. Warm, too. It was tempting to stay in bed, all wrapped up in the thick quilts, her head resting on the plush pillow, and just listen until sleep took her away. Instead, she found her feet on the cold floorboards, toes rubbing the wood until she worked up the courage to walk to the door. It was a portal, between them; she was supposed to stay on her side. He, on his. 

What kind of woman wanted, so badly, to break that barrier, to lay with her boss, to kiss him, taste him, feel his warmth? He thought himself broken; she thought he was perfect. 

But he would never love her. 

No. 

Grelle swallowed. She wrapped one of the blankets around her shoulders to ward off the chill in the room. Step by step, she made her way to the doorway, pausing to lean against it. To watch. 

There he lay, William T. Spears, her boss, her patient. She had gone to medical school; she had wanted to be a nurse. Spurred on by a good friend, she excelled. Then she met William on the day he awoke from his coma. She saw his eyes, half hidden by his lashes. She watched him scream, heard his cries. 

And she knew she was trapped. 

She could never leave him, no matter what. She gave her notice at the hospital. She finished her nursing degree online, then quickly shifted her focus to business. Within a year, she was hired on as his personal assistant, his secretary, and his personal nurse. They all but lived together; even her tiny apartment was near enough to his larger penthouse so that she could fly to him if he needed her. There were nights, honestly, when she had to spend the evening with him, when his flashbacks were too severe, when his medication wasn’t working correctly, when he lost feeling in his leg or had a seizure. 

He would always ask, eyes downcast, ashamed. And she, happily, would obliged. 

Never, never once did he bring up her being transgender. 

Now, she stood in the doorway, watching him sleep. He was on his side, his good one, lips parted just so. In his sleep, his hair was a mess, no longer bound by the sweet smelling gel he used to achieve his normal hairstyle. Even his pajamas, which he pressed and ironed every evening before putting them on, looked askew. Like this, so open and unguarded, he looked pure. Kind. Adorable. 

Grelle put her hand to her throat, remembering the strength in his hands, the fear in his eyes. Yes. He thought himself broken--but she knew that she was, too. Everyone was. No one was whole, or perfect. Everyone had longing. Everyone sinned. 

With a sigh, she pulled away, forcing herself to go back to the confines of her own room. Morning would come soon enough. She would have to drive again--their rented vehicle was not suitable for William’s disability, so he could not drive--and the last thing she needed was to fall asleep behind the wheel. 

Just as she started to make her bed up again, she heard a soft wheeze from outside of her door, coming from the hallway. She froze, listening. Listening. 

_ Heheheheh… _

Laughter? Grelle shook her head. It was probably just some other person who had rented a hotel room for the night. Perhaps they had had too much to drink, or had smoked some of that terrible-smelling weed. She wrinkled up her nose, remembering the time William tried it, hoping it would help relieve him of the pain in his leg and lower back. 

She was about to plop into her bed when there came a gentle, almost not there,  _ tap tap tap. _

__ Someone was knocking on her door? She pulled her hair out of her face, tying it back with an elastic. Then, silently, she grabbed her purse to take out her small, hand-held taser. William made her travel with one. It was the only time he had commented on her femininity, the only time he had called her pretty. 

_ “Some men would take advantage of a pretty face like you have,” _ he had mumbled, handing the thing to her.  _ “Learn how to use it so I do not receive a phone call that you’ve been murdered, or worse.”  _

Now she held it in her hands, hating to admit that she was shaking a bit. She smashed her glasses onto her face, ready to be prepared. 

_ Tap tap tap. _ A little louder now. A little faster. More aggressive. 

Grelle settled her breath, padding to the door. She pressed her eye up to the peephole, but saw nothing beyond in the dimly lit hallway. And yet-- _ TAP. TAP. TAP. _ The knocking shook the door now. It was angry, each knock clear like a crystal. Her heart thudded in her chest. With the taser in one hand and her other on the doorknob, she breathed, “Who is it? This isn’t funny, you know--”

**_TAP. TAP. TAP._ **

**** She stepped back, eyes huge. Her heart pounded now, faster. She was a rabbit, an invisible wolf baring its teeth at her. How could she run? How could she flee? If she only ignored it, if she went back to bed--

_ TAP. TAP. TAP. _

The doorknob rattled and shook. She continued to step back, eventually hitting the back of her knees against the footboard of the bed behind her. Squeaking, she dropped, falling back onto the bed with a huff. The taser fell out of her hand, clattering to the ground. 

Silence. 

Pure, gentle, silence. 

Heaving, heaving, Grelle tried to catch her breath, her heart. She was shaking terribly, her body trembling. That damned pain in her stomach flared up again, and she cried out before she could bite back the noise. 

_ Tap...tap...tap. _

The noise was coming from beside her, now, through the doorway into William’s room. She gasped, sitting up. “No no no no--”

“Ms. Sutcliff, what is all of the noise for?” William snapped. He stood in the doorway, disheveled, squinting at her. One hand rested on his cane, his other on the doorframe, as he unsteadily stood there, watching her. 

“N-nothing, Mr. Spears. I’m sorry. I had a dream, I...I think.” Grelle smiled at him. “Do you need me to help you back to bed?” 

William sighed, shaking his head. “No. It is fine. I will take one of my sleeping pills.”

“I...I’m sorry, sir,” she whispered. He dismissed her with a sigh, moving back into his chamber to sleep. Longingly, she watched him, her hand fisted against the pain in her stomach. She did not lie down until she heard the gentle, calm, deep breathing of him falling into a fitful sleep. 

“A joke, that’s it,” she whispered to herself, drawing the blanket up to her chin. “Just a joke some stupid kid was playing, or...or…” Nodding off, she sighed, curling up into a tiny ball. Easy. Gentle. Warm. She was so warm under those blankets--it was nice. 

Nice. 

Her eyes drooped as she drifted off, finally, to sleep. 

_ Tap. _

Grelle whimpered, holding her stomach. 

_ Tap. _

It hurt, but she could sleep through it, she was sure. Just...drift off…

_ Tap. _

__ Her hand moved, just so, feeling the dull knock coming from inside of her. 


	4. Thinking to Myself

_ Why was it so hot?  _

Ronald sighed grumpily, pushing his bangs out of his face. The hair stuck in clumps to his forehead; he squinted at the small digital clock on the nightstand. It was just after three in the morning. Far too early for him to be awake. 

He pushed the blankets off of him, the sheet, too, but it felt like he was stuck to the bed. Rolling and huffing, throwing a miniature fit, he finally forced himself to stand up, to crawl out of the huge bed he was sharing with his boyfriend, and make his way to the window. Maybe the heater was on? No, that didn’t make any sense. Didn’t Othello turn it off before they went to sleep? Yeah… yeah, that was right. Even as he mused it over, he could feel the cool air from the AC blowing lightly across his stomach. So why--

With a huff, he threw open the curtains, peering outside of the window. The night sky outside was darker than anything he had ever seen. No stars, no moon. No lights at all. It was as though the hotel existed in a void, a black hole. 

The heat was worse with the window open. 

The bassist rubbed his face, flicking some of the sweat off of his brow. He hadn’t felt heat like this since--

Nope. Nope nope nope. He was  _ not _ bringing that memory up. Not right now. Not when Othello was snoring in the most adorable way behind him, all snuggled up on their rented bed as though it wasn’t eighty degrees currently. Ronald calmed a bit as he watched his boyfriend, his best friend, the love of his life as he slumbered. 

Silently, he crossed the room, unzipping one of his bags. Inside, tucked away and wrapped up in a couple of pairs of his underwear for safety, was a small, black, velvet box. Ronald stroked it, taking in the soft fuzz of it against his calloused fingers. 

_ Snap. _ He popped it open, the hinge catching the top of the box before it could fly away. The ring inside was simple--just a silver band with a single emerald in its center, set into the band itself so it was not raised up. Ronald brought it to his lips, kissing it gently. “Lady Luck,” he mumbled. “Get us to that concert. On stage. He deserves the world. I wanna give it to him.” 

Othello mumbled something in his sleep, rolling over and snatching up Ronald’s discarded blankets. 

_ Snap. _ Ronald quickly closed the ring box up again, practically throwing it into his things. Surprise. It had to be a surprise. He sighed, rubbing his forehead again. Still hot. Maybe some ice? There was an ice machine in the hallway. He threw on a shirt, deciding to pad out into the corridor in his boxers and a pair of flip-flops. How Othello wore them year around was a mystery; Ronald would much rather wear something a bit less...floppy. 

The hallway was just as hot as the room, if not hotter. “Whew,” the blonde whispered as he approached the ice machine. There was an old vending machine, too, humming away with a cheery light. Aside from that, and multiple closed doors leading into other rooms, the corridor was empty. 

“Right,” he mumbled, opening the hatch on the ice machine. There was a thick layer of thin chips at the bottom, and a puff of chill air blossomed up into his face. Bliss. He reveled in it for a minute, taking in the cold, the ease of it, the gentle caress of false winter. 

Oh, that would make a good lyric. He tucked the words away into the back of his head. He could use that later. 

“Enjoying it?” 

Ronald cracked his head on the top of the ice machine, startled by the sudden voice just beside him. Stars shot across his vision. “Oh, oh bloody hell,” he hissed, rubbing his hand through his hair. He straightened up, missing the lip of the machine this time, to look at whomever had spoken to him. “Hello?” 

No one was there. Not a soul. 

“Ah, come on, it’s late. Don’t mess with me like that.” The bassist sighed. He turned back to the delightful chill of the ice and grabbed a bucket so he could take some back to his room. 

Piece by piece, chip by chip. Fill the bucket. Fill the bucket. Ronald lost himself for a moment, finding it hard to think, to rationalize why he was suddenly obsessed with each individual piece of ice. His mind started to wander, to drift backward, like a tape playing in reverse. 

_ Noise. Noise. Noise.  _

__ _ Ah. _

__ **_Music._ **

“I didn’t want to die,” he whispered suddenly, eyes wide. Shaking. He was shaking. Why-- Ronald shook himself, hard. Had he really hurt his head that badly? Now he was losing time, losing his thoughts. 

When he looked down, the belly of the ice machine was coated in blood. 

_ Drip. Drip. Drip.  _

“What--” He pressed the back of his hand to his nose, feeling the slick, sticky liquid falling from his nostrils. It pooled between his fingers, dripping down his palm, his front. Gushing. 

“O-Othello!” he screamed, falling backward. He slammed against the wall behind him, gasping and shaking. His eyes were wide, wild. Terrified. “I don’t…I don’t want to die...I don’t want to die…” 

He screamed, again and again and again, his voice going hoarse. Scrambling, he stumbled to the door, their door, pushing it open with a gasp. A rush of heat fell over him, hitting him squarely in the face. 

Fire. 

Flames shot up around him, in front of him, consuming everything it touched. Ronald halted, his body going cold. The heat was nothing to him now. It burned. It stung, and ripped at him, but he had gone completely cold. Figures screamed at him from within the fire, reaching for him, begging, crying out--

**_“SAVE US!”_ **

\--but he couldn’t. He hadn’t, back then. He couldn’t. He wanted to live. He wanted to live, to go home, to see Othello’s stupid little face again--

\--and just as quickly as it was there, it was all gone, leaving the darkness of the hotel room beyond, and Othello, sitting up on the bed, all wrapped up in the blankets. He blinked, owlishly, at his boyfriend. No fire. No flames. No death and dying friends. No burning sister, no screaming mother. 

“Ron?” Othello asked. He pushed his little round glasses up his nose, having snatched them from the nightstand. “Are you okay? You’re--you’re bleeding.”

Heaving, Ronald ran to him, scooping up the smaller man into his arms, and sobbed, his tears mixing with the blood gushing from his nose. 


	5. This Could Be Heaven--

The music blared into his ears, drowning out any and all other noises. This was soothing; the thrumming hum of the orchestra his adoptive father used to conduct. Ciel closed his working eye, taking in each rise and fall of the music, making a game out of picking out the different instruments as they began to play. It was smooth, and elegant; he particularly liked the piano in this specific piece. 

Because of him, Sebastian would never be able to return to the concert halls that he loved so deeply. 

Sighing, the boy switched off the music, pulling his ear buds out. He turned in bed, eye falling onto Sebastian’s form. The man was sleeping, or at least, pretending to. Insomnia often stole what little sleep he could find, but tonight, Sebastian seemed to be in a deep slumber. Good for him. 

On the other hand, Ciel, who usually could fall asleep at the fall of a hat, was having the hardest time making Morpheus take him into the realm of dreams. This hotel was...odd. It worried him, driving nails under his skin, making him feel disconnected. No to mention the shouts he had heard earlier. They were part of the reason he had put his music on; to drown out the sounds of the others staying in the hotel. 

Ciel stared up at the ceiling, a frown upon his young face. His fingers itched to put the music back on, to lose himself to the sweet swelling deliciousness that the orchestra offered him. 

Deliciousness. Oh. 

That brought up the thought of food. Sure, the little cake Sebastian had gotten him--somehow--for his birthday was wonderful. It was the best thing the boy had eaten in months, if not the entire year since the two of them had found themselves running from the police. Yet--yet. It was not enough. There was instant shrimp ramen packets in one of the suitcases, but he was so  _ fucking _ sick of that trash. No.

It was his birthday, as of midnight--and it was well past that now, almost four in the morning. Ciel reckoned that he deserved something a bit more delicious than nasty carbs and freeze-dried shrimp bits stewing in dirty coffee-pot boiled water. Something decadent, delicious, mouth wateringly good. Sinful, if one wanted to use such a word.

For the freshly turned fourteen year old--sinful was exactly what he wanted to taste. Chocolate, the darkest he could stand, and honey-sweetened fruits. Whipped cream, cake, cookies...His mouth was wet from the thought; he wiped his sleeve across his face to stop him from outright drooling. 

He turned, just so, looking at Sebastian’s still form. If he found out--

\--well then, Ciel reasoned to himself, Sebastian simply  _ wouldn’t _ find out. This hotel looked horrid from the outside, but inside? It was a marvel of architecture. No true, run-down dump would have such a gorgeous stained-glass mural in the front lobby. The rooms were painfully clean, and even the artwork hanging over his bed looked marvelous. It wasn’t a print, either; he was sure to check that earlier in the night. The carpets were plush, with hardwood floors beneath them. In the bathrooms, the tub looked like something out of the 1920’s, and the sink...It was all decadence. It was all beautiful, and hauntingly so. It was something that his real father would have had a heart attack over, just to see, just to explore. 

That made Ciel’s throat clench. He shook his head. “None of that,” he whispered to himself before inching himself off of his bed. Breath held, he waited. Sebastian did not move, other than the rise and fall of his body as his lungs took in air and released it. Good. Ciel padded to the door, just in his socks. There, on a hook, hung his sweatshirt. He pulled it on, then darted out of the door. On the other side, in the hallway, he held it, shutting it as quietly, as gently as possible. There was not even a  _ click _ when it was finally closed. 

He released the breath, then looked up and down the corridor. It was quiet now; everyone must be asleep. Would the kitchens be open? He certainly hoped so; considering the hour, they might be working to produce some kind of breakfast for those leaving early. 

Ciel stuffed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. He glanced up and down the corridors again before deciding on the elevators, just a few rooms down. Sebastian wouldn’t know. Sebastian would be asleep long enough for the boy to enjoy something sweet and rich and  _ good. _ And tea. Oh, how he missed the simplicity of a well-brewed cup of tea!

Lost in his thoughts, he barely registered that he was standing in front of the elevators now. There were two; one looked to be out of order, blocked off with pieces of red ribbon and a small, wooden sign that said “Excuse our mess while we renovate.” The lettering was old and faded, looking to have been originally written years ago. 

The other elevator was working just fine, and took him right down to the hallway that connected the lobby to the other areas of the hotel’s ground floor. He recalled seeing a sign for an indoor pool and spa when they first started for their rooms; now he looked carefully for one declaring a cafe, or kitchen, or anything related to food.

“Might I help you, hm?” a voice asked at his shoulder. A hand with long, black fingernails clasped Ciel by the arm, the smell of warm musk and lilies rising up to greet his nose. 

Gasping, the boy drew his arm back. “Don’t--” he started, but when he turned, there was no one there. No one at all, but his own reflection, staring back at him with surprise from the multiple mirrors lining the walls. He huffed, angry at himself. “Stupid...stupid git,” he snapped. “Just...just imagined it.” Once his heartbeat had returned to something akin to normalcy, he started down the corridor. 

No sign, but he could suddenly smell something baking. Something with yeast--and then there was butter, and something sweet, too. Ciel picked up his pace until he realized he was running. A set of double doors, both made of cherrywood and covered in beautiful carvings of cornucopias with fruit spilling out of them, stood before the boy. The smells were coming from beyond, teasing him, begging him to throw the doors open, to come inside, to feast--

Ciel shivered, then pushed the doors open slowly. 

Beyond lay a massive dining hall, the walls painted in gold. The floor was a sweet, rich brown, polished until it nearly glowed. It certainly reflected the room, making it seem like a dark mirror underfoot. Table after table stood, all dressed and ready to hold diners; they were set with silverware that shimmered like the sun and plates so white they looked to be made of pure light. 

And the food!

Long tables, all with perfectly white clothes covering them, were loaded up with every food imaginable. There were dessert tables with so many cakes that Ciel could not count them all without hurting his head. There were pots of soup, still steaming hot, and honey-laden rolls that glimmered under the chandelier’s light. Meats of all kinds, from every edible animal, sat, carved on platters of gold and silver. Vegetables, steamed, cooked, roasted, raw, lay in piles, some dripping with butter, or with a glaze of brown sugar and spices. Every kind of fruit, even a few that Ciel had thought were fictional, sat in bowls. It all smelled heavenly.

Yet…

He paused, looking around. He was alone. There were no other guests here. Just him, standing there, looking in. Was it alright for him to eat by himself? Was this set up for a function or something that he and Sebastian had not been told about? 

Below him, his reflection in the floor stepped forward, moving on its own toward the center table, but Ciel did not notice it until he began to do the same. 


	6. --This Could Be Hell

A chill fell upon the bed, soaking deep into the thick blankets and the mattress beneath. Sebastian shivered hard, trying to tuck himself up under the numerous quilts to stave off the sudden bout of cold air. It was not enough; no matter what he attempted to do, the man found that he was too frozen to continue to sleep. 

Finally sick of it, he threw off his blankets and rubbed at his face. The room was dark, which Sebastian took to mean that it was still nighttime, or at least, early morning. He tried to be quiet, hoping to keep from waking up Ciel in the bed beside his own. The boy needed to rest, after all; he was young still, and sickly. 

What Sebastian would give to see the boy smile, to see him be able to grow up right. A family, school, chores, his first date, his first vehicle...but they were on the run. There was no future for them, not until they could figure out a way out of the country, a way to make lives for themselves beyond America’s borders. Everything had been taken from them, that night, one year ago--

\--and yet...He would not do a single thing differently. Sebastian pulled on his shirt after retrieving it from the chair between his bed and the windows. If he had not smashed the cello over that man’s head--if he had not fought--if he had not  _ kill-- _

__ Well. Things would have been different, but they would not have been  _ better. _

__ With all of this swimming through his head, Sebastian stumbled to the bathroom. He did what he needed to do, admiring the clawfoot bathroom while he had the chance, then washed his hands. The soap smelled sweet and gentle, something like roses and maybe a touch of sage. No, that wasn’t right. A frown passed over his face as he scrubbed his hands. 

Blood? When did he get blood on his hands? And from  _ who? _ Scrubbing harder now, panic began to settle in his chest. He was certainly awake now, any touch of slumber left upon his eyes fleeing. The blood did not come off. It wouldn’t. No matter how hard he scrubbed, no matter how hard he tried, or made the water hot, it stuck to his skin with a vengeance. The water grew hotter, hotter, burning him, melting his skin and flesh down to his bones--and then blood still remained. 

Sebastian pulled his hands from the sink, so close to screaming that his throat hurt from the force of keeping himself silent. The steam dissipated, leaving him staring at his hands. They were whole, and his, with just his pale skin shining up at him, the stupid tattoo from his teenage years looking up at him mockingly. No blood, no bones. Just his hands. 

“I was...asleep still,” he reasoned, voice just a whisper against his lips. Shaking a bit from the vision, the hallucination, he wiped his hands dry and darted out of the bathroom. It was silent in the bedroom. Something was missing. Missing? 

He listened, realizing that he could only hear his own breathing. With a huff, he turned on the lights. Ciel’s bed was empty, his hoodie gone, though the boy’s old and beaten MP3 player lay on the bed, along with his headphones. 

Panic, fresh and stronger, poured into Sebastian’s chest. He went for his cell phone, hoping against hope that Ciel had taken the spare. No. They were both there, on the nightstand. He had no way of calling his adopted son--and even if he did, the service was out. No bars. Not even roaming. Just radio silence. 

“Shit,” he hissed, and hated that he was being so vulgar. If Ciel had left, then where would he have gone? Worse yet, but if he had been  _ taken _ , if the two of them had been  _ found _ … Cursing again, Sebastian tried to draw a breath, to calm himself. To relax, smooth out his thoughts. 

He turned, looking at the little digital clock on the nightstand. It read eight AM in a rather cheery shade of green. Wait, no--it was still dark outside. Perhaps the clock was on the fritz, then? But the two cell phones read the same time. Confused, Sebastian pushed aside the thin curtains, peering out into nothingness. 

Nothing.

His eyes widened and he gasped, then threw the window open. Nothing. Everything outside of the hotel was dark. Not black, per say, but it was the absence of light, of anything, really. Nothing below, and nothing above. Just a void, an empty world with the hotel being the only solid structure. 

Sebastian shook, and put his hand outside of the room, through the window, out into the void beyond.

And he  _ screamed _ . 

Flesh peeled from muscle, from bone. The bone turned to dust, flying away from him, the void gobbling up his fingers, his hand itself, right up to the wrist, which was safely inside of the hotel. Even his stupid little tattoo from his younger self was gone, the ink floating away with the rest of the hand, off into the ether of nothing.

Pulling his arm back into the room, he gagged. Eyes wide, he looked at the stump that had once been his hand. Panic set in, thoughts that did not matter slamming into his brain. The first thing he could think of was that he could not play the violin now, or the piano. He had been a conductor, and a writer of music. How was he to practice, to play, without one hand?

The wrist shivered, healing over with a fresh coat of soft, pale skin as though the hand had never been there to begin with. It no longer bled, no longer hurt. It simply did not exist. It was not there anymore, but it left no scar. Just the absence of it. 

Just a void. 

Sebastian sank down to the floor, heaving. Shaking. He jerked his shoulders a bit, still staring down at what had once been his hand. He ran his remaining fingers over the bump at his wrist, over the arm. 

Then, quickly, he jumped to his feet, slammed shut the window, and darted out of the door. Ciel was in danger. Danger. Everyone in the hotel was in danger, and he would be damned if he was going to allow anyone else to die. 

He had failed once. He could not do that again. 


End file.
